


I've got no soul to sell

by shinykari (meinterrupted)



Series: Stripper!Bucky [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: All Steve's Bucky Feels, Amnesia, Community: trope_bingo, Frottage, M/M, Stripper Bucky, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:31:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinterrupted/pseuds/shinykari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Help me I broke apart my insides, help me I’ve got no soul to sell / Help me the only thing that works for me, help me get away from myself</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Or, the shameless stripper!Bucky AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've got no soul to sell

**Author's Note:**

> So I mentioned on Tumblr that I had this wild idea to write Bucky as a stripper. Several people enabled me, making me doubt their sanity a bit, but hey, this is fandom. We're all a little crazy. And then on Monday, beardsley was sick, and so this is dedicated to her. Thanks to wishfulwandrer for beta'ing. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" which is also the first song Bucky dances to.

The door closed behind Steve with a quiet click, the thick wood muffling the music pounding through the club, leaving only the pulse of the bass vibrating through his chest. The private room was dimly lit, with just enough ambient light to direct him to the plush red chair situated in front of the small, raised stage. He glanced around the room, seeing no one and nothing hidden in shadowed corners, and slowly made his way to the chair.

As soon as he sat, a spotlight flicked on above the stage, glinting off the brass pole in the center. Steve swallowed as a deep bass beat began, with an electronic hiss coming in on the counterpoint. Soon, stepping in time with the music, the dancer appeared, his head down and his face hidden behind a dark curtain of hair. Steve knew it was Dmitri, though he couldn't see the distinctive star-shaped tattoo on his upper left bicep and the scarring it couldn't hide; no one else in the club had his swagger.

He wore black patent leather boots that laced up all the way past his knee, leaving only a few inches of skin exposed between the tops and his navy blue hot pants. His chest was fully covered by an olive green jacket, cut in a distinctly military style, but far more form fitting than any dress uniform Steve had ever worn. The Soviet influences were obvious in the red shoulder boards and the gold braid that shimmered in the light--Steve had done his research. As he reached the center of the stage, he wrapped one strong hand around the pole and rolled his hips, and any thought of uniforms and history was driven from Steve's head as Dmitri began his show.

Dmitri's dance was less artistic than those of the female dancers that populated the front of the club, but it had its own savage grace. He swung from the pole in time to the thumping bass music, gripping it with strong arms, then his thickly muscled thighs. His dark hair brushed the floor of the stage as he hung upside down, his piercing blue eyes searching Steve out in the shadows. "Hello again, soldier," he murmured, his throaty voice making Steve's stomach clench with want.

"Hello," he breathed, as Dmitri put his hands back on the brass pole and flipped over, landing softly on his feet, his ass almost close enough to touch. Steve wanted to reach out, to cup the curve in one hand, to trace the cleft between with his finger, but he knew that wasn't allowed. Instead, he watched as Dmitri rolled his hips sensually, then slowly removed the jacket, leaving his chest bare.

Dmitri's smile was sharp and predatory as he stalked toward Steve, each step solid and louder than usual. "Do you want to touch me tonight?" he purred, placing a foot on the armrest of Steve's chair, spreading his legs and placing his clothed cock at eye level. Steve had to grit his teeth and look away to keep from reaching for him.

"Bucky," he whispered, unable to hold back the name. "Please."

The corner of his mouth twitched up in a fond smile. "I told you, soldier, it's Dmitri," he said, leaning down until Steve could feel his breath brush against his cheek. "But you can call me whatever you want."

Steve let out a shuddering exhale and balled his hands into fists. "Dmitri," he repeated, rolling the syllables around on his tongue. They felt strange, but not wholly unfamiliar. "Dmitri," he said again, as the man himself straightened and he retreated to the stage as the song changed.

Without the coat to hide his upper body, Steve could look his fill at Dmitri's muscular torso, skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. Though most of his chest was waxed smooth, a thin trail of dark hair began at his navel and disappeared into his hotpants and the g-string Steve knew he wore underneath. Dmitri winked and easily climbed the pole until he could grip the ceiling bars, the action highlighting the play of his biceps. He did several acrobatic moves that looked impossible, but showed off the sleek strength hidden under his skin. Steve couldn't help but palm his own cock through his trousers, eyes fluttering shut as Dmitri continued to dance.

When he opened them again, Dmitri was straddling the chair, his thigh muscles tense as he hovered with his crotch mere inches from Steve's face. He lowered himself further, the slight heel of his boots moving his center of gravity just enough that the move was almost effortless, until he was eye-to-eye with Steve. His blue eyes were ringed by sooty lashes and just enough eyeliner to enhance his natural sultriness, but not enough that he looked made up or cheap. "So, soldier, you never answered my question," he said, licking his obscenely beautiful lips, his ass hovering just above Steve's lap, "do you want to touch me?"

"Yes," Steve breathed, even though he kept his fists balled tightly. Bucky--no, Dmitri, he reminded himself--leaned in, brushing his mouth against Steve's in a feather-light kiss, fingers sliding into Steve' hair to cup the back of his head. Steve forced himself to stay rigid, to not bury his hand in Dmitri's dark hair and pull him in for a harsh kiss, to not lose all his hard-won control as Dmitri's tongue darted out to caress Steve's lower lip.

Steve's dick, hard since Dmitri first walked onto the stage, twitched painfully in his trousers at the brief contact. Dmitri hummed softly as he settled himself carefully in Steve's lap, one hand still in his hair, the other resting lightly on Steve's shoulder. Almost of their own accord, Steve's hands cupped his hips, thumbs stroking the just of his hipbones. He started to apologize and remove them--this wasn't in the rules--but Dmitri stopped him with a whispered "stay" against Steve's lips. "I want you to touch me, Steve," he murmured.

"Yes," Steve breathed, and kissed him. He tasted of slightly stale beer and the sharp burn of something stronger, vodka or whiskey, Steve thought. His lips were soft and pliant, opening so beautifully for Steve's tongue as he licked his way into Dmitri's mouth, a wonderful contrast to the rasp of his stubble against Steve's chin. Steve groaned as Dmitri rolled his hips, grinding himself against Steve's erection in a way that made it clear that Steve wasn't the only one enjoying himself. Dmitri tilted his head back when Steve squeezed his ass, and Steve took full advantage, kissing and licking his exposed neck and down to the scarring on his left shoulder. Dmitri went still as Steve explored the thick, ragged line that bisected his shoulder and arced toward his pectoral, and the red, white, and blue star tattoo on his bicep. The tattoo followed the general lines of the scar tissue, at once hiding and enhancing the long-healed wound.

When Steve scraped his lower teeth softly against the thick scar, Dmitri shivered and began moving, rubbing against Steve's lap with a wanton moan. He fisted his hand in Steve's hair, yanking his head back until they were staring in one another's eyes. Steve thrust up against him, not taking his eyes from Dmitri's until they were both gasping and shuddering to completion like a couple of horny teenagers rather than a stripper and a battle-hardened soldier.

Their gasps echoed in the sudden silence of the private room as the last song ended. "Time's up, soldier," Dmitri whispered. He pressed a soft, chaste kiss on Steve's cheek, stubble rasping audibly against Steve's skin, before levering himself upright.

Steve swallowed hard and watched him straighten up, spraying a plain white towel with something from an unlabeled bottle before wiping down the pole for the next dancer. Steve's chest ached as Dmitri slipped his jacket back over strong shoulders, his boots making almost no sound on the floor. "Same time next week?" he asked, eyes searching out Steve's.

"Yes," Steve whispered, then repeated it louder, praying he wasn't imagining the pleased look in Dmitri's eyes. "Next week."

"Until next week, then, soldier," Dmitri said, voice light and flippant. "Don't forget to tip your bartender." Then he was gone, disappeared into the shadows in the back of the room, leaving Steve alone with a mess in his pants and a pain in his heart.

"Next week, Bucky," he whispered as he signed the credit card slip "Roger Grant," leaving Dmitri an obscene tip and pocketing the black AmEx.

He was halfway back to the Tower when he realized that Dmitri hadn't called him Roger--he'd called him Steve.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Favourite Customer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/719845) by [AdamantSteve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve)




End file.
